


A First, a Blue or a Spouse

by blowingwinds



Category: Bridgerton (TV), Bridgerton Series - Julia Quinn
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 14:00:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29011677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blowingwinds/pseuds/blowingwinds
Summary: They say one should leave Cambridge with a first, a blue or a spouse. At the rate Simon’s going, none of the options seems plausible. Unless his best friend's sister helps him out. University AU.
Relationships: Daphne Bridgerton/Simon Basset, Simon Basset & Anthony Bridgerton, Simon Basset/Daphne Bridgerton
Comments: 68
Kudos: 176





	1. Week 3, Michaelmas

“Ready?” A suit-clad figure barges into his room without a knock.

Simon, hunched at his desk and shift half-buttoned, could not be furthest from “ready”. In fact, he is barely halfway through the first problem sheet. There is also an untouched theory essay which will definitely raise questions about his spelling abilities.

Peering at the screen over Simon’s shoulder, Anthony clearly doesn’t share the same concerns. “You could just submit it like that? It’s not like suppo work counts, you know.”

The comment earns an exasperated groan as his friend’s head bangs against the keyboard.

“Dad’s already up my arse about last year.”

“Your dad’s been up your arse before you were even born.”

Anthony has a point. Any normal parent would have been overjoyed with the news of their kid getting into Oxbridge, full stop. Sir Hastings did not subscribe to such foolish notions. Choosing maths at Cambridge over PPE at Oxford was nothing short of an insult. The thousands of pounds poured into Eton and university tuition fees were meant to foster the appropriate connections and pave his only son’s way to the Commons front benches, _not turn him into a glorified accountant_ — his father’s words.

But there he is, struggling his way through the bachelor of mathematics. Thanks to the unyielding support from his sixth form maths teacher Mrs Danbury and, to a lesser extent, Simon’s own teenage rebellion.

“C’mon, let’s get pissed.”

A year ago Simon would have already been two-thirds through a bottle of Sainsbury’s cheapest red someone kindly volunteered for the pres in the staircase kitchen. But barely scraping a high enough grade to get into his fourth year was a wake-up call. They say one should leave Cambridge with a first, a blue or a spouse. At the rate Simon’s going, none of the options seems plausible. Though he’s determined to put in at least some effort to graduate with 2:1 on his transcript.

Yet another thing for the list of Simon’s failures his father must keep written down somewhere.

Graduation of his best mate, currently lounging on the floor with a bottle of some sort of booze, should have made more time for studying. Instead, this is the third weekend in a row since the start of the term Anthony popped over for a visit. To his credit, though, he did whatsapp with a _formal tonight_ two hours before bursting through the door.

Simon had been friends with Anthony his entire life. Well technically, since he was thirteen. They met on their first day at Eton: Simon confused and out of place, and Anthony anxious and worried sick beneath the bravado. It felt like a lifetime.

They shared their first cigarette together, courtesy of one of the Year 12 boys Anthony managed to befriend. The smoke burned Simon’s eyes, throat, lungs. _Everything_. He could not understand why people liked it so much, with all the coughing and sputtering. Anthony took it much better—somehow Simon suspected it wasn’t _his_ first but he did appreciate his friend’s fake coughing efforts.

They had their first beer together, too. Past curfew, behind the football pitch, sneaked from the local off-license. Cheapest and strongest stuff they could find. Foul, really. They got caught sneaking back to their bedrooms—Anthony’s fault entirely for stomping up the stairs. Simon’s father never bothered to attend the disciplinary meeting but his disappointment was palpable on his son’s return for the summer.

When Anthony announced his plans for Cambridge, it made perfect sense to follow. Throwing a spanner in his father’s Oxford legacy a lovely bonus too.

Yet as much as teenage rebellion fueled his choice of studies, Simon found himself not wanting to give his father a satisfaction of proving to be a complete failure. So this year he actually has to get shit done. And so far his best friend has not been particularly helpful.

“Fine but help me out with this first.”

“Nah, mate,” several sheets of paper scatter a few feet beside him despite being aimed precisely at Bridgerton’s head. “Ask Daph though. She edited all my stuff last year.”

* * *

Daphne is on her fifth cup of coffee in a fourteen-hour library session, stuck on the same paragraph for at least twenty minutes.

Buzz in her pocket snaps her back to present.

_Hey how you? Anthony said to ask for help. Thanks_

Frowning, she slides the notification open. An unknown number but she has seen the face brooding in the profile picture around. One of her eldest brother’s mates. There are enough stories about the two of them shagging their way through the colleges.

She could ignore the text. But knowing her luck, she’ll definitely run into him at one of Anthony’s house parties. They are awkward enough without explaining to her coked-up brother why she blanked his best friend. Even if he was a complete arse the first time they met.

She should have stayed home and caught up on the reading list that night. A tangled mess of rugby lads really felt _it coming in the air tonight_. Overenthusiastic air drums and all. By some miracle or, rather, careful manoeuvring, Daphne made it to the kitchen without landing a punch.

It was a short-lived success as her older brothers were nowhere to be found. She should at least get a drink to make the trip worthwhile—options limited to a couple cans of Stella and half a bottle of gin.

After scouting the cupboards for a clean glass— _honestly, Tony, mum wouldn’t be impressed with your crockery situation_ —she cut her loses and settled on a mug for a generous pour of spirit topped off with some lukewarm tonic someone had left on the counter.

“Hey, luv,” a cloud of alcohol breath tickled her ear before she had even managed a sip.

Another point for her mental list to avoid these parties. Drunk fuckboys with no concept of personal space. 

Annoyed and too tired for another _sorry, mate, not interested_ conversation, Daphne ducked under the arm extended between her and the doorway. The owner of the limb bellowed some uninspired insult at her retreating back.

As if the night couldn’t get any better, the battered couch in the living room was already claimed by four—no, five—bodies in various stages of consciousness. The very same couch Anthony had sworn was hers to crash on. There was no way she’d be getting the night bus home from Clapham on her own.

Her drink.

_Fuck._

Liquid sloshed onto her fingers and top.

“Watch it,” on someone else’s shirt too, it turned out.

Instinctively, Daphne’s mouth gaped open for an apology. 

“What’s your name?” What came out was not quite the _sorry_ she had intended. There was something familiar about the face glaring at her but she just couldn’t place it.

The man scoffed, muttering about pretending.

“Your name, please?”

“Basset!” Anthony came roaring before she got a chance to probe any further, “Simon, mate, you made it!”

His heavy hand landing on her shoulders, “Oh you’ve met Daphne. My sister,” Anthony offered, “Why ya both so grim anyway?”

“Simon Basset, was it?” she said, voice a bit too smug.

Anthony had to force two rounds of drinks on them before she stopped shooting daggers at Basset.

_Hey, what’s up?_ should do the trick. Maybe he just needs her to pass something on to Anthony when she’s next headed home. Or something.

Instead, she gets a three-page word doc and _cheers_.

“Seriously?”

A girl at the desk in front snaps her head back. Daphne’s mouthed _sorry_ and a sheepish grin has nothing against that death glare. It takes a two-minute staring contest for the girl to finally turn back to her own work with a dramatic sigh.

 _Help him_ , her brother’s name flashes on the screen.

Buzz.

_Please_

Another buzz.

_Owe u xxx_

With a roll of her eyes, Daphne opens up the doc and starts reading.

* * *

What was meant to be a one-off, somehow turned into a two-off, then three…

If Daphne had to be honest, she liked reading Basset’s stuff. Even with his questionable grammar. It was a welcome distraction from Derrida and a decent practice for her editing skills. Besides, there was elegance in mathematical notations. Comfort in the certainty of the formulas. Much unlike her own degree, which, as far as she could tell, relied on sounding pompous enough to impress their supervisor.

But for the past three days, Basset’s been clogging up her inbox and, despite her best efforts, Daphne can’t figure out _what the fucking point of this argument_ _is_. Eventually, he probably gets tired of _BUT THAT DOESN’T MAKE ANY SENSE_ and suggests talking it out in person.

So there she is, a laptop in hand, making her way to the college bar at 9 pm on a Sunday as a group of freshers spills out onto the quad, stumbling to the general direction of _Sunday Life babes!_ , followed by equally enthusiastic woos and cheers.

A change of scenery should do her good.

That is Daphne’s mantra as she muscles her way through the queue by the loos. He slips past her gaze at first, hiding away in the far left corner of the room. It is a good spot—two settees, an armchair and a table—with easy access to the bar yet far enough from the roar of the crowd.

Basset has already claimed the chair, a pint in hand and another one on the table. Debating her options, Daphne goes for the couch to his right.

“Got you a beer,” he gestures to the glass on the table, “thanks for doing this, by the way.”

“No worries.”

She eyes the pint with suspicion. Basset’s being nice? Still a smug and arrogant bastard but—Nicer? The first time they met he outright chastised her for not knowing his name. Apparently, she should have been aware that everyone’s desperate to pull him wherever he goes.

“So about your argument,” Daphne props her laptop open on her lap.

After an hour of shuffling paragraphs around and _yeah that reads much better_ s the draft gets emailed to the supervisor. They drink to the victory—his suggestion—and go back to their _actual_ assignments—hers.

Muffled pop song coming from the speakers complements the steady rhythm of Daphne’s fingers flying across her keyboard. She is an easy company, content to focus on her work without much chitchat. Simon catches her eye every once in a while, and she offers a tight-lipped smile. Much more tolerable now that she is not glaring at him like that time they met at Anthony’s party. Although he still maintains she must have known who he was. Everyone else there did.

“Gonna get another pint,” he finds himself growing restless, “You want anything?”

Without looking up from the screen, she shakes her head.

The bar is empty, save for a blonde having an animated discussion with the bartender. It will take some time for them to sort out who went back with whom on the latest night out. Much to Anthony’s dismay, Simon bailed on _their_ last outing the moment port stopped making rounds.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Daphne’s now got company on the sofa. He is about to head back to the table without a drink when the bartender calls out for his order.

“San Miguel, please,” his eyes stay on the corner of the bar.

Daphne feels the cushions next to her dip from the weight, surprised by the change in Basset’s spot. Only it isn’t him.

A knee bumps hers.

“How ya doing?” a low voice slurs.

“Good, thanks.”

“Me too, me too.”

Eyes still focused on the screen, she feels a body scooting closer. There is no more space on the couch, her hip already pressed against the side. From her periphery the man looks older— thirties, perhaps—possibly a grad, suit crumbled and bowtie hanging loose around his neck. Drunk, too. Daphne feels alcohol radiating off of him. She hopes turning away to face the bar would be enough of a hint.

Despite her one-worded answers and evident lack of interest, he keeps on blabbering. About his degree. A formal he’s just been to. Where he’s from. How _she_ ’s finding Cambridge.

She has no idea how long she’s been enduring that string of random thoughts before Basset returns to his spot, drink in hand. She feels his eyes on her—he’s been watching the exchange all the way back from the bar—yet he stays mum.

Spurred on by the liquid courage, the man next to her plants a sweaty palm on Daphne’s knee. “So which staircase do you live at?”

Weighing her options, she glances at Basset and reaches out.

“I’ve got a boyfriend,” the words leave her mouth on instinct. Daphne keeps her eyes on her lap where Basset’s hand is now lying in hers, their fingers locked together. He gives her a little squeeze.

The drunk all but jumps to the other side of the couch, “That’s… that’s not what I meant,” he stammers, “Where do you live?” pointedly redirecting the question at Basset.

His hand feels warm in Daphne’s lap. Simon toyed with the idea to intervene when he first caught sight of a figure hunching over her across the bar. Only he couldn’t tell if the intervention would even be appreciated. Instead, he got his pint and returned to his spot, eyes never leaving Daphne and waiting for a cue.

And now his fingers are wrapped around hers as if it is the most natural thing in the world. _Boyfriend_ , she’s said. The word feels foreign to his ears. A label he proudly rejects at the mere hint of the idea.

But Daphne is staring at him, eye wide and pleading. If there ever was a cue, this is it.

“Around,” rising to his feet, Simon grips her hand tighter, “Pool, love?”

“Lead the way,” she beams.

The leftover few still lingering about the bar are staring. Every single person has their eyes on them as Simon and Daphne cross the room hand in hand.

“You should have taken me to dinner first. All that public spectacle and all,” his breath feels hot on her ear.

“You wish.”

* * *

Basset was right. People have been staring.

Now they are talking.

The staircase chat explodes at the news. _Mind literally blown_ is the consensus. Everyone wants to know _where_ , _when_ and most importantly _how_ Daphne managed to end up in a relationship with _the Simon Basset_. Rose sends a long-winded voice note on fuckboys, ending with _but you do you, babe_ which roughly translates to _don’t fucking dare, he’ll screw you over_. 

As much as Daphne appreciates the concern, she can’t muster the energy to explain. It should all blow over soon anyway. Things always do.

She just has to stay away from him for a few days. Easy.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

Or not.

Appearing out of thin air, he settles into a chair next to her.

“I’ve been busy.”

“Too busy for your _boyfriend_?”

“Look… I said I’m sorry.”

She tried apologising about the whole thing at the pool table but Basset was having none of it. If anything, he seemed to enjoy playing the part. She almost believed he was flirting.

Nothing but an act to help her out. And now he’s here to demand she fixes it before any more damage to his notorious reputation.

Basset quirks an eyebrow at her. “So I’ve been thinking,” he goes before she has a chance to say anything, “Can we talk?”

“Sure,” she sighs. _Here we go. Tell your friends we’re not dating._ Or some shit like that.

“Somewhere—” he looks around, sheepish, “private?”

Daphne bites down a comment that the room is empty and follows him down the stairs.

Even skipping two steps at a time, she struggles to keep up with his pace.

First floor. Ground. She’s panting as she makes it to the lobby. Infuriatingly, he’s already out the door. Not even bothering to wait or at least check if she’s still with him.

She finally catches up to him by the bins at the back of the faculty. Very inconspicuous. Surely Anthony would have mentioned if his best friend was a serial killer.

It takes her a moment to catch her breath.

“We could pretend to be in a relationship,” he says, pacing.

Daphne raises an eyebrow at him.

“Everyone’s already talking about it. We’d just have to… not deny it, I guess,” he sounds sincere.

It makes no sense. There must be an angle here.

“Explain to me, why would we fake a relationship?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A nifty [guide](https://www.varsity.co.uk/violet/13449) to some of the Cambridge slang that comes up in this chapter and/or later on.
> 
> Even though I have it all planned out, I would have preferred to finish the whole draft before putting the first chapters up. But this has literally taken over my life and I felt like I'm gonna explode unless it gets out there. So here goes.
> 
> I'm keeping the T rating for the time being but there will be some ~sexy times once I get my shit together to sit down and write.
> 
> I'm also on [tumblr](http://blowingwinds.tumblr.com/) if anyone feels like freaking out about Bridgerton together.


	2. Week 5, Michaelmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A nifty guide to some of the Cambridge slang in this fic is [here](https://www.varsity.co.uk/violet/13449).
> 
> Confusingly, _public_ school in the UK means _private_. Eton, where Simon and Anthony both went in canon and here, is one of the most ~famous public schools in the country and has very strong historical and societal connotations.

Her trainers hit the ground with a steady _thud_ , _thud_ , _thud_. Cheeks flushed and sweat glistering on her skin, Daphne drags her body through the meadows—empty, save for a couple of cows nibbling at the grass. One cocks its head to the side and stares.

She picks up her pace, desperate to outrun its gaze.

The pile of notes on her desk.

The never-ending hiss of college gossip.

Basset and his _proposal_.

A dull throbbing in her side takes over. Panting, she digs her palms into her thighs. The orange rays of November sun flicker across her face. The last few days of unnatural warmth before the misery of English winter settles in. It’s already getting dark at four. It’ll only get grimmer.

Daphne glances over, squinting at the cow—its muzzle back to the ground.

“Good for you,” she may have shaken off the stare but the thoughts of Basset are still running through her head.

Even though she’d mocked the suggestion, she didn’t exactly refuse either.

It was a ridiculous idea. Bad enough to have been one of her brother’s idiotic pranks, she wanted bet he was behind it. Only Anthony had sworn her to _please never ask me about sex ever Daph_ when she found a condom wrapper in his laundry at fourteen. They never spoke of it again—Anthony excusing himself from the conversation at the mere mention of her dating life, Daphne acting clueless when he returned to Cambridge every weekend months after graduation.

Yet Basset insisted it was a brilliant plan.

“If people think I have a girlfriend, they’d stop trying to get with me. Sex… It’s a distraction. I need to focus on my work.”

“Don’t we all?” She failed to see why his overactive sex life was her problem.

But a part of her was curious. She had spent most of her first year camped out in the library. Even Anthony gave up on dragging her out around the first weeks of Lent. By the time she was ready to emerge from the books, the cliques had been formed and night out plans made. Daphne found herself wandering from group to group, catching snippets of conversation in the smoking areas before slipping away after too many _what a girl like you is doing here_ s.

Basset knew people; she wanted to expand her social circle—it was tempting. With the right amount of vagueness, it could even get her mum off her back.

“You know, your father and I met at university. I’m sure you’ll meet plenty of nice boys in Cambridge,” Mrs Bridgerton didn’t even try to be subtle about her hints. At least with Eloise starting uni, there now were two people at the receiving end of it.

Daphne huffed at Basset, still pacing by the bins. There was an open word doc upstairs waiting for her, so whatever this was would have to wait.

“I’ll think about it.”

The thumping in her chest slows along with her laboured breaths. Daphne fishes her phone out of the pocket and fires off a text. A voice in the headphones promises _if_ she _wanted to_ , she _’d be alright_. She straightens up and follows the riverbank back to town.

A drop falls on her forehead and cascades down her cheek. 

It begins to pour.

* * *

Will’s fists are a blur. Simon ducks, a second too late. A punch sends him stumbling back, his body sagging against the ropes. Both men grin, their panting mixing with the rhythmic whoosh of a rowing machine in the corner.

“You make this too easy,” Will grasps a Lucozade between his gloves and takes a swig, “You’re distracted.”

Emotion ghosts in Simon’s eyes but his lips curve right back up, “Would be a shame to knock you out before the suppo.”

He enjoys taking modest credit in Will’s success in the ring. _You needed a moving punching bag to improve_ —Will suspects it’s his roundabout way of apologising for Anthony being a dickhead in their freshers week. Ancient history but Simon’s always struggled to let things go.

Five pints deep, they were in yet another college bar. Whole week a haze of pub crawls and alcohol-infused organised fun. A lad, sporting Eton leavers hoodie, didn’t seem to mind the dirty looks thrown his, and by association his friend’s, way as he bragged about their school glory days to anyone within earshot.

People had warned him about posh public school twats when Will set off to Cambridge. So he refused to tell his mates on the council estate where he was going to study. They already gave him enough shit, voices dropping an octave into annoyingly nasal RP whenever uni came up in the first place.

They might have had a point. Barely three days in and overenthusiastic reminiscing already blew his over-rehearsed _they’re not all that posh here_ monologue out of the water.

Will had seen the guy next to the storyteller—another Etonian, naturally—at the back of the room during their director of studies’s welcome speech. They had to be on the same course.

“I’m Anthony. Seen you around college,” Will was about to slip away from this nonsense when the storyteller caught sight of him, “This is Simon, we went to school together.”

“Will,” he bit _did you now_ down to shake the hand thrust at him.

The usual _where in London you from_ (Hackney) and _what school you went to_ (Urswick) followed with another round. Will’s answers sparked the obligatory debate on Britain’s education system. Hands down the most entertaining part of the night. A bunch of privately educated wankers with their big words and Latin phrases arguing over the benefits of public schools and if grammars should be counted as state in the stats in the middle of a college bar.

By the call for last orders Will couldn’t hold his tongue back— _tory scum_ seemed appropriate. With no skin in the game and tripping over his feet, Anthony was in his face, looking for a scruffle. Simon, ever the peacemaker, landed a bloody nose and a trip to Addenbrooke’s. Courtesy of Anthony’s impeccable aim. Anthony maintained no recollection of the night to this day.

After their first supervision, Simon volunteered an apology coffee at Costa. Will declined—it wasn’t his fault anyway. Never talking much outside of supervisions, they went for a civil silence all the way back to college.

They shared a nod, watching an Arsenal match at the JCR once. Will didn’t see him around much for the rest of the term. In Lent, they ran into each other at the gym a few times. Will was trying out for blues and Simon wanted to try his hand at boxing. Training together turned into routine and their understanding grew into respect. Eventually, as conversations evolved from maths, football and gym schedules, Will realised most of the time Simon was alright.

“It’s not ‘bout Bridgerton’s sister?” Will’s chuckle falls flat, “Shit, mate. You’re not… What happened to focusing on work?”

“It’s complicated,” Simon grumbles, sliding under the ropes and out of the ring.

He drops the gloves off and grabs his hoodie from the floor of the ring. The phone vibrates in his pocket. A text from Daphne.

_I’m in. But we need to talk about rules._

Took her long enough.

* * *

Simon’s an odd figure against the backdrop of fairy lights and artsy postcards. He flips through a book—one of many titles in a meticulous arrangement meant to look oh so casual. The letters jumble and blur together in the faint LED glow. Pinching his nose, he drops the book on the bed.

He’s been in rooms like this hundreds of times. Knick-knacks and bedspreads to fight the dreariness of empty grey walls. But there’s never been much time to look around with clothes scattering on the floor and his attention preoccupied.

The food is already cold. Lonely fork sticking out of the container makes the remnants look even sadder. Daphne’s not made much progress either, spinning side to side on the desk chair with one leg tucked beneath her. She twirls the noodles round and lets them pool back in the tupperware.

“Go on then,” he says, stuffing a forkful of cold rice into his mouth for something to do.

Daphne glances at him, spread out on the bed amidst the throw cushions. It bothers her. The ease he carries himself with—looking through her books, lounging on her bed—while she sits there, exposed. All the little trinkets of her boring life on display. For him to judge.

Basset’s opinion shouldn’t matter. She’s outgrown impressing silly boys back in school. But cramped between the four walls of her dorm room, she’s got nowhere to hide. No right to chide him for the curiosity.

“We need rules,” she gestures between the two of them, “If we gonna do this, there’ll have to be rules.”

Sitting up, Basset nods, “Of course.”

Daphne turns over to her desk, putting the food to the side, and opens up her laptop, “I’ve made a doc. We can get the basics down now but I’ll share it with you later, so you can make your comments if needed.”

“Do I need a lawyer? I know a few people in college,” his chuckle turns her head around and earns a raised eyebrow, “It’s a joke.”

Not amused, Daphne continues, “First rule—no sex.”

“Of course,” there’s a joke there too but he stays mum, “But you’ve got to start calling me Simon.”

 _Basset_ is her brother’s habit of calling his mates by their last names. One of the lads, a safe way out. _Simon_ implies intimacy. Closeness. They might play pretend but she doesn’t know the guy. Distance gives her comfort.

 _It’s just a name,_ Daphne chides herself to stop her mind spiralling. The argument dies on her tongue.

“No extensive PDA either,” she adds after a beat, “Simon.”

“Define extensive, Daphne,” the tone of his voice almost sounds like a challenge.

“We might need to hold hands. A quick peck’s fine too. But that’s about it.”

“That doesn’t leave us much to play with.”

“Take it or leave it.”

“Look… I,” he cuts off and rubs his eyes, “Look, I’m just messing with you. Sorry if I’ve made you uncomfortable or something. This is… It’s a bit weird, is all.”

“It is weird,” she confirms.

They laugh, nervous at first, before bursting into a fit of giggles. It’s a start. With all the time they’ll have to spend together, they might as well have a laugh.

* * *

The strategy is simple. Neither confirm, nor deny. A trip to the university library brings another wave of gossip. It is exhilarating to be in on the joke—they have a cryptic text chain going to share the wildest theories. Most of the time they just send each other random memes, though.

Daphne falls into an easy step next to Simon, “Eight formals.” 

“No.”

“Six. And at least one May ball.”

He shakes his head, “Not happening.”

“If we were actually dating,” she stops to look at him as they round the corner on Grange Road, “You would take me to a formal.”

“If we were actually dating, I wouldn’t have to take you to a formal,” Simon leans in to whisper, his breath tickles the skin of her ear, “I would only need five minutes alone with you in your room.”

Daphne snorts.

“Oh, you’re actually serious,” looking up she’s met with the intensity of his gaze and nearly doubles over in hysterics.

There is a hint of hurt in his eyes. She might need to reconsider the habit of making fun of him. Maybe tomorrow.

“Four formals,” she says after a moment to collect herself, “And Trinity May ball.”

“Three and I’ll think about the May ball.”

“I can probably work with that.”

They fall silent for the rest of the stroll to the library. Despite all the jokes over the phone, the conversation doesn’t quite flow yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am completely floored by the response the first chapter of this fic received - I can't thank you enough for the support and encouragement! In particular, shout-out to **evening_spirit** for indulging me to chat about some themes I want to address in the story, and **sapphic-beauty** for being super lovely on tumblr.
> 
> If you wanna join me obsessing over Bridgerton and another million things I'm fixating on, you can find me on [tumblr](http://blowingwinds.tumblr.com/).


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